Reciprocal
by CitiKitti
Summary: Charlie has an interesting little chat and then some with Sawyer. 3rd in a series, following my fics Tidal JackCharlie and Fix SawyerCharlie. Spoilery for The Long Con. Contains slash.


Title: Reciprocal

Author: CitiKitti

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Charlie has an interesting little chat with Sawyer. Set immediately between the episodes "Fire + Water" and "The Long Con", so if you're not up-to-date with season 2, it could be considered spoilery.

A/N: Many thanks to whymewhynot for the beta! Also this is the 3rd in a loose series of fics, following "Tidal" (Jack/Charlie) and "Fix" (Sawyer/Charlie). You don't need to read those before reading this one… but it might help.

**Reciprocal **

It's difficult for Charlie not to flinch as Jack cleans the area around his stitches. The pain, still so fresh, is exquisite, and a muscle twitches under his eye as he fights to keep still.

"Quit flinching," Jack says absently as he dips a bit of salvaged gauze into a chipped cup half full of water. His eyes are focused intently on the wound, dabbing gently at it with the gauze. "I'm only cleaning it, Charlie."

"Hurts," Charlie mutters. He shifts uncomfortably under Jack's gaze. Though the doctor's eyes are bright and alert, his face is drawn and tired-looking, and Charlie wonders how long it's been since Jack last slept.

"What was all that about?" Jack asks suddenly. "This morning. With Sawyer. And you."

Charlie starts, eliciting an aggravated sound from the doctor. "Nothing," he says, too quickly.

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah. Of course," Charlie says. He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks and wills himself not to blush. "He just wanted to see how I was… doing."

"And that doesn't bother you?" Jack asks. "That he'd suddenly take an interest in you? It'd sure worry the hell out of _me_."

_Took an interest_, muses Charlie, absently scratching the bridge of his nose. Now _there_ was a euphemism if ever he'd heard one. As it was, he had a few things of his own to say to Sawyer about _that_.

Jack sighs and sits back on his heels. "Do you want this to get infected?" he asks.

Charlie mutely shakes his head. He doesn't need Jack to remind him that things like antibiotics are precious here, on this uncharted bit of rock somewhere in the bloody South Pacific.

"Then be still," Jack says, and Charlie is.

Unsurprisingly, he finds Sawyer sitting on the floor of his tent, legs sprawled open. A dog-eared paperback is in one hand, as he squints at the pages with a trademark scowl. With one hand Sawyer rubs idly at his temples, and Charlie wonders if the headaches are returning.

"Where's your glasses?" Charlie asks abruptly.

Sawyer glances up, marking his page with one finger. "Lost 'em on the goddamn raft," he grumbles. "Probably in the belly of a fuckin' shark by now."

_Maybe this isn't the best time_, Charlie thinks, standing awkwardly just outside the front opening of the tent. "Sorry," he mutters, turning to go. "I'll catch you later, then."

"Not so fast, chief."

Charlie turns back around. "I didn't want to disturb you, y'know," he begins, "if you're busy."

"Nah," Sawyer says, tossing the book aside in disgust and fixing his gaze on Charlie. "Don't matter anyway. Already read the damn thing about six times."

Charlie shifts from one foot to the other. This isn't what he'd thought would happen. He'd meant to come charging in, blustering and blowing, ready to tell Sawyer that he wasn't anyone's toy, anyone's sodding puppet, and that he was far too mature for bloody mind games from the resident con artist, thank you very much. But here, pinned like a beetle under Sawyer's implacable scrutiny, all Charlie's bravado has fled, scattered to the four winds. It takes all his will not to shy away.

"What was all that about?" he finally forces out. "This morning?"

Sawyer doesn't even blink. "I don't believe I know what you're talking about," he says mildly. "All this clean livin' must be gettin' to your head."

"Yeah, you _do_ know," Charlie spits out. A slow stir of anger is beginning to uncoil in the pit of his belly, and he turns to leave. "Don't know why I fucking bothered to ask."

"Sit down." Sawyer's voice is edged with steel, and Charlie turns back around slowly, the anger in his belly swiftly replaced with a strange anticipation, even while the dangerous gleam in Sawyer's eyes chills him to the bone.

"Amigo," Sawyer drawls, "you don't _ever_ want to walk away from me. Not like that. Now sit_ down_."

Charlie drops to his knees so quickly that he nearly loses his balance.

"Nice," Sawyer says approvingly. "I like that. Now, come here."

Charlie shuffles forward awkwardly on his knees until he's mere inches away from Sawyer.

"Closer," Sawyer murmurs, and Charlie complies, unable to tear his eyes away from Sawyer's heated gaze.

"_Closer_," Sawyer mouths, his lips twitching into a smirk. Charlie edges closer until he's right up against Sawyer, his knees flush up against Sawyer's denim-clad crotch.

"That's better," Sawyer says. He slips two fingers into the belt loops of Charlie's jeans, pulling him impossibly closer with one sharp tug. "Yeah. _Much_ better." Charlie's hard by now; there's no use in hiding it, especially when Sawyer's deft hand moves lazily down to cup him there, cup and _squeeze_, the warmth of Sawyer's hand spreading right through the material. Charlie's so overcome with sheer want that he actually mewls with disappointment when Sawyer takes his hand away.

"Got a pretty little mouth on you," Sawyer says. "Betcha know just how to use it, too. Don't you, mister rock god?"

Charlie tries to pull away, but it's only a token effort, and they both know it. "I don't…" he begins.

"Yeah, you do," Sawyer suddenly snarls. The steel is back in his voice. "Y'know, I seen the way the doc looks at you when you're not looking, like he wants to eat you alive. And you, you look at him the same way. You wanna tell me I'm wrong? You gonna stand there about two seconds away from coming in your jeans and tell me you _ain't_ been balling the doc?"

Charlie gapes at him. _So much for discretion_, he thinks wildly. And if Sawyer knew, if he even suspected, and chose to share that knowledge…

"So," Sawyer continues, "'less you want more problems than you already got – and I don't think you do – I suggest that you and that pretty mouth of yours had best get to work." He grins wolfishly at Charlie and adds, "I ain't about to let the doc have all the fun now, am I?"

Charlie flicks his eyes downwards to the rather noticeable bulge in Sawyer's jeans. _I could say no. What if I said no? What could he do if I just walked away?_

"There a problem, chief?" Sawyer asks dryly. "You thinking you can just back out? 'Cause let me assure you: backing out would be a major problem. You savvy?"

"Yeah," Charlie mutters. "I savvy." It isn't a problem, not at all, it's just that… He watches, unconsciously licking at his lips, as Sawyer unbuttons and unzips, raising his hips slightly as he eases the denim past his hips. It isn't fair, Charlie thinks furiously, that Sawyer should see into him so easily.

"Go on, Chuckie," Sawyer murmurs as Charlie bends to take him in his mouth. A bitter smile ghosts across Sawyer's lips. "Just pretend it's the doc's, why don't you?"

It should feel humiliating, being spoken to like that, but oddly it isn't. Even if he wanted to, Charlie could never pretend Sawyer was Jack, not in a thousand years. He can't pretend it's Jack's voice with that honeyed rasp, muttering something indistinctly above him. He can't pretend it's Jack's fingers tangled roughly into the hair at the nape of his neck. Sawyer doesn't even _taste_ like Jack; he's wilder somehow, more feral.

"You do this for the doc?" Sawyer grunts. His hips buck erratically as Charlie's pointed tongue works at Sawyer's cock, swiping broadly along the sensitive underside of the head. "I bet he loved it, loved fucking your mouth. Did he? Did he fuck your mouth like this?"

_Not exactly like this_, Charlie wants to say, but he wasn't raised to talk with his mouth full, and he doesn't think Sawyer would appreciate him stopping just now. He's achingly hard now himself; he'd love to feel Sawyer's mouth on him, or his hands, _anything_. Charlie doesn't dare touch himself – it would break his concentration, if nothing else – and anyway, one of his hands is curled around the base of Sawyer's cock, steadying him while Charlie studiously licks and sucks. Charlie's other hand rests lightly on Sawyer's hip, his fingers flexing as he desperately tries to keep them from straying to his own cock. Going down on Sawyer is a bit like being caught in a maelstrom, and Charlie wonders fleetingly what being fucked by him would be like. He suspects that it wouldn't be terribly gentle.

With a sudden thrust, Sawyer comes, a low guttural cry escaping him. Charlie swallows quickly -- once, twice, before he can change his mind. The salty-bitter taste of Sawyer is in his throat, in his nostrils, everywhere, but all Charlie can register is Sawyer's last words.

_Jack, he said Jack_, Charlie thinks incoherently, pressing one hand against his cock. That's all it takes; with a strangled moan he comes in his jeans. _Now_ he feels humiliated, especially as his shirt is nowhere near long enough to cover the slow, sticky stain. He watches in silence as Sawyer tucks himself back in.

"Not bad, mister rock star," Sawyer says. The bitter little grin is back on his face. "Not bad at all. Now listen: I want you to do me a favour."

_I thought I just did_, Charlie nearly says, but then Sawyer begins to explain, something about guns and Locke and secrets. Charlie's eyes widen, all words forgotten, while Sawyer's plan unfolds between them.


End file.
